


Wide Awake

by Voidpurrmina



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, forneus is there briefly before he kicks the bucket
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:48:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27636389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Voidpurrmina/pseuds/Voidpurrmina
Summary: Grima dreams about his time in Thabes.
Relationships: Chrom/Gimurei | Grima/My Unit | Reflet | Robin
Comments: 3
Kudos: 11





	Wide Awake

**Author's Note:**

> wow! im back
> 
> i feel like this is? an ok fic?? not a lot of substance to it. just character interaction go brr.

It shouldn't surprise him as much as it does. That awful place is a common location of Grima's dreams. It’s so easy to identify it and yet it always manages to bring vivid emotion out of him.

It’s cold. And dark. Musty, too. The familiar stagnant air of the labyrinth enters Grima's lungs (Well... air is an overstatement. Grima’s willing to bet it’s mostly dust). He knows he’s a dragon right now, he doesn’t have legs. Which is a very weird feeling — suddenly not having any legs after being so used to them. But he has better things to do instead of lamenting his lack of limbs. 

Six gleaming eyes get used to the low light of his birthplace and he notes how small he feels. A little bigger than a large dog, he reckons. It’s odd not being the size of a mountain range anymore. Even with his thick scales, he feels weak. Vulnerable. 

It’s so easy for him to slip back into his mindset at that time. Still new to the world, full of love and willingness to do anything for his creator. He was so young to have to experience what will happen. He knows what’s coming now because this moment has been replayed countless times in his head. But back then? He was just a naive, ignorant little thing. He could never have guessed that his creator wanted him dead.

The dragon can hear a telltale shuffle of purposeful footsteps. There’s only one person it can be. The thought of who fills him with rage, unbridled bitterness. 

"Grima…"

His creator's voice is pitiful. It tries to pander to him, lilting and raspy. Grima's jaws salivate as he tastes the phantom memory of sour blood filling his mouth and slipping down his throat. Armed with the knowledge of the future, he knows what happens next.

It's hard to look at him. His creator. As much as he hates to admit it, some small, persistent part of him still has hope. That maybe Forneus has changed. That he wants to see what he's created, look at Grima with fondness and not thinly-veiled disgust. That maybe behind his back, he's hiding something nice for his Creation to eat and not the worn pages of an old Thoron.

He never could change, though. 

Not in the troubled past of the Creation, nor in his relentless nightmares could his creator change for the better. It’s a painful realization Grima makes every time he reaches this part of his memories. The dry air crackles with the energy of beckoned lightning as the alchemist siphons magic for a deadly strike but it is futile. Grima is much faster and bites at the foul man’s neck before the concentrated lightning can brush his thick dragon scales. The acrid blood pushes its way down his throat, invasive yet still familiar. The taste of a poor excuse for something that could hardly be called a childhood. 

If Forneus chokes out some bloody, garbled mess resembling his last words, Grima cannot hear them. The dragon doesn’t stop biting, doesn’t let go of his creator’s mangled neck until he is sure that wretched man is absolutely dead. He stares at the body for a long time. What is there to say? What is he to  _ do _ ? The demon alchemist is gone.

He stays near his creator's corpse long after the body grows cold. Where else does he have to go? He's trapped and the only other “living” things roaming these halls are the Risen. The labyrinth echoes with dizzying loneliness and Grima stays curled up by the body of Forneus for a long, long time. 

It’s hard to sleep within a dream. He tries for what seems like hours to drift off into slumber but nothing’s moving and it feels like he’s not even breathing and the dead body next to him feels so  _ real _ -

And suddenly, he’s up and breathing hard and not a dragon anymore. Thick, dark scales are replaced with tanned skin and Grima’s head spins from lurching upwards so fast. He's human. Definitely human. And he’s covered with a layer of cold sweat that makes the blankets feel too sticky and suffocating. It was just a nightmare, as he thought. 

It takes him a while to register the hand rubbing circles in his back. Or the voice asking him if he’s alright. Or the fact that the one doing all that is Chrom. It gives him a minor spook to see the prince beside him (and he absolutely does  _ not _ let out a mortifying squeak that is completely unbecoming of the Fell Dragon). 

Chrom looks concerned and Grima burns with embarrassment. Pathetic. Never should he inspire worry, not like this. Despite that, he can’t bring himself to hiss or scowl or even muster up a single biting remark. He falls against Chrom’s chest without a word and trembles like a leaf in autumn. Like magic, Chrom already knows how to make him feel better. 

"Bad dream?" 

The prince's question is answered by a nod. Grima still can't speak, the words dry up in his mouth. If Chrom notices that he's shivering, he says nothing. 

"Was it the labyrinth again? Your birthplace?"

Another nod. The dragon squeezes Chrom in a hug. With Chrom there and tangible, he feels safer. And warmer. Being able to cling to him is pure heaven.

For a while, the only sound in the room is Grima's shaky breaths. It feels like time was frozen everywhere else. Like the two are stuck in some kind of stasis, trapped in amber and away from the outside world. Grima closes his eyes tight and wills the world to move, prays for something to happen. Just so that these few seconds don't feel like another thousand years. Just so he doesn't have to spend another moment wrapped up in his head. 

And then Chrom starts to hum. 

It's not very good, but it's there and Grima is desperate. He hangs onto every note that falls a little flat and savors the gentle vibration of Chrom's chest that he can feel due to their proximity. It helps. 

Chrom stops humming after a while and runs his hand through the other man's hair gently. Such simple gestures shouldn't calm him so much, but they do. A defiant part of him hates how much he loves the small touches. 

"That was a song Emmeryn used to sing to me and Lissa," Chrom murmurs after a while. He speaks slowly and softly, and the rumble of his voice combined with the leisurely, repetitive hair stoking makes Grima feel so very at ease. "Every time we would have nightmares, we'd go to Emm and she'd sing that song and we'd feel better in no time.” 

Grima can feel sadness in the prince’s voice. He’s still mourning. It’s not like the dragon knows how to effectively help but still, he tries his best to comfort Chrom in his own mostly-emotionally-ignorant way. He buries his head in the crook of Chrom’s neck and pats his back with the awkwardness of someone who has never really tried to comfort anybody. Chrom chuckles and he can’t tell whether it’s out of pity or not but it doesn’t matter since the prince speaks before he can get out a sound. 

“Thank you, Grima. That means a lot.”

Yeah, he’s not even gonna  _ try _ to overanalyze that. 

He’s so tired. Too tired.

So he lets go of Chrom, lays down, pulls the covers up higher than they probably need to be, and sleeps.

He almost doesn’t feel the ghost of a kiss that grazes his forehead. 


End file.
